


"Where Does It Hurt?"

by gosshawks



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, King and Lionheart Dynamic, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, Other, Unrequited Crush, local squire would die on a battlefield for jaime lannister
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-11 00:24:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15303372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gosshawks/pseuds/gosshawks
Summary: Playing around with a new ASOIAF oc: Arthur Flowers, a dfab nonbinary squire posing as a man so that they can become a knight.Prompt fill. Cw: minor injury.





	"Where Does It Hurt?"

_“Where does it hurt?”_  

Art’s ears were still ringing and their right ribcage throbbed painfully from where the blunt tourney sword had slammed into their side. Ser Jaime Lannister had an arm. Even with his squires he did not hold back much, especially when they were being cocky. He shouldn’t have. They were on the road to war, after all. And Art had deserved it.

“What?” Arthur Flowers, as they were currently known, asked loudly from where they lay in the dirt. They were, and had for some time been…posing as a man, but they weren’t quite a woman, either. What mattered was that they were nearly a knight, being trained by one of the most skilled fighters in Westeros. Even if he could be rude, proud, and impulsive.

Ser Jaime leaned over, grinning that knife-sharp smile that always stopped their heart a moment, and offered a hand. Art took it and he pulled them, unsteadily, to their feet. “Where does it hurt?” he asked again, and they realized that was what he’d said the first time.

“Oh, er—” they gestured vaguely to their lower side. 

“Come with me,” said Jaime, then turned and walked briskly, expecting them to follow without bothering to look back. It had been an odd, charmed sort of year. Art had been a squire for a minor knight from the Reach when Ser Jaime was unhorsed by The Hound during the Hand’s Tourney. His golden helmet had gotten stuck the wrong way around and the whole of King’s Landing had laughed at him as his squires struggled to pull it off.

Half out of genuine concern and half because they’d wanted to see what happened next, Arthur had snatched a bottle of rose oil from their lord’s tent (everyone in Highgarden wore the stuff) and followed as Ser Jaime’s retinue hurried him off of the pitch. After several minutes of unsuccessful yanking and yelling, Jaime told the squires to fetch help and Art had slipped inside. 

“Please be still, my lord,” they’d said. Jaime had sighed, the noise sounding tinny from inside the helmet. 

“I thought I _told_ you to _leave_.” 

“You did, ser,” they’d said, pouring the rose oil on their hands and slipping their slender fingers carefully under the edge of his dented helmet. “But I have a little more brain than the rest of your squires put together, it seems,” they’d said, testing the give, then finally starting to twist it back the right way around. 

“Well, I suppose we will see about—” and then, gently, Art lifted the helm from his head. Ser Jaime had blinked at them, clearly surprised to see an unfamiliar face. “—…that,” he’d finished. Art found themselves just as at a loss for words: it was one thing to know Jaime Lannister was beautiful, another to see him, and another still to see him from a foot away, those cat green eyes locked on theirs, golden curls tumbling out from his helmet as they’d lifted it from his head. In that moment they’d have died for him.

And then his squires had arrived and he’d spent a moment berating him before announcing that—what was your name? ah, yes, Arthur—was squiring for him now, and that if they wished to finally be of use they should grab his things and bring them to the castle. Even months later they still weren’t entirely sure it wasn’t some long and elaborate ruse. 

Ser Jaime led them back to his tent and gestured for them to sit once inside, and Art did so, looking around. 

“You won’t be able to see a maester until we reach my father’s camp, so I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with me,” he said. _Oh, gods_. Art held their ribs and grimaced. 

“Really, ser, I’m not very hurt—” 

“I need to see if it’s broken,” Jaime said, giving them a look. “Chew on this.” He offered them a strip of willow bark and they took it gratefully, gnawing at it.

It would help the pain somewhat.

Arthur pulled up their linen shirt just enough for Ser Jaime to see the beginnings of a bruise already starting to bloom across their ribcage. If he took notice of the fabric binding peeking out from under their shirt, he said nothing of it. He prodded at their ribs and Art inhaled sharply, but didn’t pull away. 

“You’ll need to rest, but it doesn’t seem broken,” Jaime said at last, sitting back. They fixed their shirt and tugged their tunic back on over their head. “Take care in training, and you may want to ride in one of the wagons until we reach the camp.” 

“Yes, ser.” Arthur chewed on the willow bark, watching him with an anxious frown.

“What is it?” Jaime asked in a bored voice, pouring himself a cup of wine. 

“…You know, don’t you? That I’m not—”

He drank, regarding them for a moment before he spoke. “I’ve known, yes.”

Art could feel themselves go red and even a little lightheaded. They’d tried so hard to be careful, and if Jaime knew…oh, gods…

“I said nothing because it isn’t my business,” he added, for want of a response. “And no one else seems to have caught on. My sister and I used to play at being each other when we were very young. The sort of mischief twins get up to. I would wear her dresses and go to her lessons, and she would go to mine.” Jaime watched them intently. “Cersei loved it. It suited her, just as this suits you. I wouldn’t risk that.”

Arthur gaped at him. “…Why not?” they asked in a tight voice.

Jaime shrugged, pretending not to notice. “It’s my brother and sister who make their trade in secrets. If it doesn’t concern my family I cannot say I care much at all.” Art laughed softly. It was such an insulting way to say something so kind.

“Thank you, ser.”

“What are you, then?” Jaime asked, his tone amused but not quite mocking. Almost gentle. But they fell silent a moment, as they had no answer to give.

“…A knight,” Arthur said eventually. “People can see me how they like, call me what they like, that’s all that matters.” Then they realized what they’d said and felt a flush creep across their face, stammering, “O-or near enough. I will be a knight. I think I will be a knight.”

The corner of Ser Jaime’s mouth twitched as he watched them.

“…Well. I think you may be right.” 

**Author's Note:**

> if you're interested in sending me prompts check out my tumblr! i always love to have more.
> 
>  
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> [my tumblr](gosshawks.tumblr.com)


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